


n*ttin' but love

by Cat_Face



Category: Original Work
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Crack, Dubious Consent, M/M, Overstimulation, Watersports, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21803494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Face/pseuds/Cat_Face
Summary: Freddy likes Drew. Drew likes calligraphy. They're both weird.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 17
Kudos: 41





	n*ttin' but love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emeka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> shoutout to the two people who saw my n*t tirade. my deepest condolences

Freddy likes the way Drew writes. He especially likes it when Drew writes the word _Freddy._ The F always curves so prettily and nicely—almost like a flower all on its own. He could stare at it for days on end. It’s always reminded him of a harp, or a lyre, what with its shape and the overlapping twines of accents. 

The r right next to it is also beautiful, though small and seemingly inconsequential. It doesn’t connect to the F, unfortunately. Something about not having a plausible line of connection to the F for it to still look pretty and cohesive. Freddy can’t really check the validity of that statement for himself—every time he tries to tweak Drew’s creations, he ultimately ends up making it worse. It’s such a shame to wonkify Drew’s handwriting with his shaky lines, so he stopped altogether and accepted the explanation.

After the r, which looks like a fancy little pi symbol, the eddy comes in a quick, smooth-stroked order. The letters bounce a bit sometimes, giving a playful feel; other times they’re in a uniform line. He can’t decide which one he likes better. On one hand, the straight line of letters—an “unchanging baseline,” Drew calls it—allows more freedom and spacing for intricate detail. It looks beautiful. Elegant. Makes the name _Freddy_ seem a bit more...mature, in a way. But the bouncy letters seem more fun, and he knows Drew likes the freedom that comes with it. 

It’s just your imagination, Drew says. I don’t really mind doing one over the other. It’s whatever you like that matters. 

That’s the only explanation that Freddy _doesn’t_ accept. He can see it, that’s why. It’s so easy to see the whimsical flicks of Drew’s wrist. With the unchanging baseline, he seems so robotic. Like he’s going through the motions and not in the moment. 

He wants Drew to share his excitement every time he sees that F drawn out, or that r and that eddy. He wants the hook of the y to be dramatic, expansive, self-loving, self-indulgent! So if it means that his name has to seem a bit more childish, and he has to hide that little niggle of self-consciousness deep in his ribcage, then it doesn’t matter, really. He wants Drew to be happy writing his name. He wants Drew to be happy.

Which is why he tries his best to learn how to hand-letter alongside Drew. It’s hard, and it’s not like his handwriting has ever been good in the first place. His F looks wonky, and his r always connects to it in a weird curve from the bottom horizontal stroke. The e in eddy connects to the r too, and sometimes his r’s look like v’s with how tiny he makes the r curve. It’s ugly, for a lack of better words. But he tries anyway.

And Drew gets excited. He smiles more when he’s trying to teach him how to hold his pen and how to balance his hand. Post your pen, he always says.

Posting is putting the cap of the pen on the back, Drew once explained. It helps balance out your hand so you can hold the pen higher up. Holding it too close to the nib runs the risk of getting some ink on your fingers.

Drew always gets close when he explains things like that. Sometimes he wraps his hand around his protegé’s less experienced, more clumsy fingers, and he whispers the information low and sultry. 

It makes Freddy blush, always...always. It makes him feel like an adult. It makes him squirm and tingle, and his fingers always shake when Drew’s steady hands pull away. Sweat makes the pen in his hand slip until he’s holding it by the nib even if the cap is posted. His shakiness only translates to wide, wide wonky lines and inconsistent pressure on downstrokes and, even worse, _thick_ lines on upstrokes. It’s so ugly that he wants to cry every time he compares himself to Drew.

So it’s no wonder that Drew, ever so acquainted with the finest details in life from his calligraphy work, catches onto his predicament. At first, Drew doesn’t say anything. He ignores the shakiness and continues to speak his directions in that husky, husky growl, holding Freddy’s hands and guiding his fingers to the right position. He praises him when the upstroke is thin enough; corrects him when the downstrokes are too long, or if the letters slant at different angles. He puts his hand on the small of Freddy’s back when he notices his student slouching. He ignores the quieted squeak and the jolt beneath his fingers. He ignores the long, stolen glances of his face and the restless shifting of his student’s lap as if something was...itching. Aching.

Freddy thinks that the silence must’ve been because there’d been no certainty that his crush had been discovered. After all, maybe his hands are shaking because he’s legitimately nervous performing in front of a master. Maybe he’s blushing because he’s unused to proximity, and he’d blush regardless of the person speaking into his ear. Maybe he’s squirming because something really _is_ aching and bothering him, and it’s not his...his, well, butt. Maybe he’s unaccustomed to random touches, and he’s ticklish in the areas that Drew touches him. 

But it all goes downhill when his unattended and forgotten bag gets pulled downwards from a shelf. It happens on accident when reaching for an envelope up top. It seems that thousands upon thousands of collected notes of Drew’s handwriting—some six years ago, before Drew even knew who Freddy was, before he even became a professional calligrapher—spill from the undone cotton drawstring. 

He’s horrified when it happens, and he’s even more horrified when Drew picks up a paper receipt with practice squared loop drills scrawled all over it. It’s a Walmart receipt dating back to 2013, and the purchased merchandise includes a cheap brush pen alongside some fanciful Faber-Castells, presumably for whenever the cheap pen ran out and he’s practiced enough to be worthy of using them. Even back then, Drew had the talent for pursuing his career. Talent and commitment. Freddy spends some time washing himself with admiration of Drew’s fetus calligraphy before he remembers what had happened. 

He starts shaking when Drew reads out the date and the address of the Walmart three states away. Once done, the calligrapher glances at the half-empty bottle of lube that’d rolled out alongside the papers, stares at it, then looks back at the receipt for a long, long, long silence, leaving Freddy staring with wide eyes and a bladder ready to burst. He doesn’t dare say a thing and doesn’t dare make excuses. He knows what it looks like, and he knows that any assumptions being made about him are probably true. 

So he doesn’t know why he’s naked in Drew’s lap now, with his dick in warm hands and a throaty mutter in his ears. They’re sitting in the middle of paper carnage, and he crinkles receipts and cardstock that have long-awaited recycling with every jolted squeak from his lips. He tries to open his mouth to apologize—as if apologizing would do anything when his stalking has been discovered—but Drew keeps _touching_ him, and he can’t pressure his voice out lest he ooze some pee from his puckering slit. Mindless apologies wouldn’t be the only thing leaking from him then.

“I was surprised,” Drew says after a while, running his thumb pad up his slit from his frenulum. Freddy whimpers, and his legs shake atop Drew’s as the back of his head digs into the shoulder behind him. Nothing new drips from his urethra, but there’s a sheen of built-up wetness that bespeaks his arousal. “I knew you liked me, but I didn’t know you liked me _that_ much.” 

You’re wrong, Freddy wants to lie. It’s not like that.

“Yu _hng…”_ It comes out as another whimper when Drew’s careful thumb passes over his slit again. This time, his hips tilt upwards to chase after the running finger, which automatically spreads his legs and plants the sides of his feet on the floor’s wrinkled paper. The movement is assessed by a curious hum to his ear, and Drew’s hand finds it way to his stomach, pressing him back into the perfect fit of the calligrapher’s lap. He tries not to fight it anymore than he has to, for the hand puts pressure on his bladder.

The passover happens again, and Freddy’s harsh breath turns into a whine midway when the sticky residue of his piss-precum snaps directly into his urethra. Something definitely leaks out this time, and it goes unmissed by Drew, especially when he thrashes his head to the left in humiliation. The heels of his feet dig into the now ripped, crumpled paper on the floor. He tries to push his body back into the chest behind him, hoping to escape another passover. It comes despite his attempt, and it rubs a tease into his small, glistening hole. His thighs tense tightly enough for his entire body to shake like his hands had done when holding a brush pen.

“D-Doo _hng_ ”—another passover: twice in rapid succession; he doubles over the hand on his stomach, fingers immediately grappling onto Drew’s wrist in a fitful plea—“don’t don’t don’t,” he chants in one rush of breath, letting his urethra dribble out some pee as a sacrifice.

Drew doesn’t bother ushering him back into his chest, instead letting his dick-free hand enjoy the contractions of his stomach as orgasm desperately wanes. At the first signs of muscle relaxation, Drew slicks a passover, causing Freddy to jolt back into his chest and clamping his legs shut like a triggered mouse trap. The only difference is that the mouse squeak comes from the trap itself. What happens is that his knees knock together and his feet go inward, squishing Drew’s hand between his thighs in his picture-perfect potty-desperate posture. He squirms just enough for spikes of pleasure to fall through from the hand, whose thumb rests steadily on his slit now that it lacks range of movement. 

“Don’t,” he whines, gyrating his hips into the slightly callused pad and making it grind against his slit. He does so while rubbing himself onto Drew’s lap and resting his head on the calligrapher’s cheek, cool in comparison to his flush. “Don’t...don’t touch me…”

“I’m barely touching you,” Drew replies without a beat, into his ear. The sound of his voice makes Freddy pause and quiver, to which Drew presses down and passes over his slit, playing with it. The result is instantaneous: Freddy’s hips lift off the man’s lap, and a strangled mewl rings high from his lips. Several streaks of dribbly dribbly run down his shaft and pool in the sweaty pockets of his squished together legs, overflowing and dripping down the sides of his outer thighs onto Drew’s clothing and the paper below. 

Unlike the other times, Drew doesn’t stop with one or two teases. No, he keeps his thumb moving minisculely enough that, from far away, nobody would be able to tell he’s moving and squicking up the insides of Freddy’s urethra, frothing it to some degree. The movement is so small and controlled—rhythmic—that it _has_ to be from years of practice with his work, of intricacy and fine detail, of knowing every effect of a muscle’s contraction based on how ink spreads on a page. 

Freddy’s legs are forced open by the sheer barrage of violent tingling in his gut as Drew’s finger continues to rub down, and the collected dribbly fluid in his pocket skin slicks its way down his inner thighs like a sweat floodgate. His breath breaks into short, stuttered gasps, fearful that his orgasm will come the instant he lets his breath slip a second too long. Both his hands support his body upwards by gripping Drew’s arms, which seem as relaxed and controlled as ever, just like when he’s performing his work.

“Stop,” Freddy heaves, breathless, pushing as far back as possible to run from the stimulation. It’s useless even when he’s an unstoppable force, for Drew’s body is an immovable object. His feet are curled enough for paper receipts to bunch between his toes. 

He takes a gulp of air and forces out another breath of a plea, pushing in his stomach, pressuring his full bladder: “Stop—s-sto-o- _oooooh!”_ he suddenly keens, “ _nonononono—”_ thrashing his head back and forth, _“nononono’m going to cum,”_ and he sounds so distressed you’d think he’d had already. The sound of whatever Drew’s doing increases tenfold with the slosh of fluid despite the movement staying the same, and Freddy whimpers, whimpers, legs trembling and sweat-slippery hands scrambling to keep hold on Drew’s forearms. His forced out plea had let loose a rush of fluid from his slit, pushed out by his stomach, and “you’re—you’re g-going to make me—I’m”—and now there's another splurt of fluid from his continued attempt to speak; he tries to stop anything more by stuttering his next breaths and his words, vision fluttering—“gh-gh-goin _ggghnn—”_

His feet suddenly slip beneath him, and he falls flat onto Drew’s lap. Drew pounces on the opportunity, taking advantage of Freddy’s momentary gelatinous legs to reorient his hand and better angle into the urethra. The tip of his rounded thumb nail soon has itself dug into Freddy’s glans, shallowly thrusting in like a miniature sound, flicking, playing. He writes the harpy letter F and spells Freddy’s name as best as he can in the small little hole. Shock renders Freddy completely still and dissonant for the first few seconds before sensation _explodes,_ and a spurt of fluid up his urethra feels like its purpose is to eject the invader from his body. 

“STOPstop—stopstopstopstopstop,” he blubbers, kicking up papers and sliding the soles of his feet uncontrollably against the slippery papers on the ground in hopes to gain traction. Get away get away get away get away—he needs to go back to his earlier position to—“Drewstopstopstopstopstop—”

The stickiness of sweat adheres some sheets of paper to his feet, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t care; he’s trying so hard but his orgasm builds, builds, sharpening to an obsidian peak as he continues to chant his meaningless mantra; until his slit sprays like a light sprinkler at first, hesitant because his muscles are still clenched so tightly from Drew’s _continued rubbing_ and his eyes have rolled back into his head and he’s going to make such a mess all over the floor and all his collected souvenirs of Drew and his handwriting will be ruined but this is _the best orgasm he’s ever had in his life because Drew is touching him Drew is touchingDrewDrewDrew_

 _“Drew,”_ he sobs and heaves when his sprinkler-dick finally unhinges its floodgates and expels watery fluid all over his thighs, spraying then dripping dripping dripping down, wetting receipts until they’re translucent and papers until they rip with tinged yellow; his legs wane open and closed and open and closed with every jet of fluid, and his feet continually slip through the barrage of papers on the floor as he rides out his pissgasm, _“Drew, DrewDrewDrewDrewDruuuuhuhuhu—”_

His chest crackles with every wet sob, and his mouth is salty with snot and tears. His hips thrust back and forth on Drew’s unmoving thumb as his slit flows with now dribbly urine, the worst having been done and over within two seconds. His hands fall to his sides to the wet ground, palm up, feeling out the soggy wrinkles of paper like pruned skin on the backs of his hands. His rutting against Drew’s thumb continues for who knows how long until his body finally gives out, and his dick is limp and inflamed, and the smell of the room is stank and stale, and everything is too sticky; stuffy. His head has lolled to the side, and his body has essentially adhered itself to Drew’s body. Orgasm has ravaged his body to the point that his muscles twitch and tick like he needs a banana, and if it weren’t for his exhaustion, he’d be willing to go another round. Every twitch sent pleasurable shocks through his system since it teased Drew’s finger into his used up urethra, after all. 

“Well,” Drew murmurs for the first time in forever. “You got the receipts all wet.”

Freddy, in his incapacitated and dazed state, gives no response besides a notable twitch of his muscles.

“It’s okay,” Drew continues, and he even rubs his thumb into Freddy’s slit one last time, to which the student lolls his head to the other side with no verbal reaction. “But I glanced one of them, and it had the word _thin_ on it somewhere. I think it was an Akashiya Sai.”

Drool.

“How’d you even get that, anyway? And the rest of the receipts...I usually leave them at my house.”

Blink.

“Oh, whatever," he says. He holds up his sticky hand for Freddy to see. "You’ve certainly got Akashiya Sai beat, huh? This was, and is, the thinnest nut I’ve ever seen someone bust in my entire life.”

**Author's Note:**

> i really tried to make it serious, but i cannot take the word "nut" seriously.


End file.
